“You were desperate.”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t you… don’t you want to read it?”
“I’m fucking dying to read it.” I stare into those soft green eyes. “I want every thought in your head, Kay. But I can’t take them. I need you to give them to me.”
“I did.”
“Because you want to let me in. Not because you think it’s the only way.”
“Oh.” She unfolds the paper. Her attention drifts to it as she rereads her words.
I give her space. Suck every bit of sweetness from a strawberry. It only makes me more desperate to taste her.
“I… I want you to read it. This.” Her voice rises from a whisper. “I do. I’m sure.” She just stops herself from handing the paper to me. “Or… I could read it. I want to.”
I nod. Fuck knows I want in her head.
She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Okay. Here goes nothing.” Her attention goes back to the page. Her voice shifts into something soft and rhythmic. “I don’t even want to write this, but I need to get it out. It’s not like I can tell anyone. I certainly can’t tell Em.”
She presses her lips together.
“I looked at Brendon’s sketchbook. I know it was fucked up. I’d die if he was reading this, if he was reading anything in here. But I had to know if I was right about the way he looks at me or if it was all in my head. And I was right. It was full of pictures of me. Stripping. Naked. Bound. He wants me tied to his bed. Or at least, he thinks about it.”
Guilt seeps into her voice. It’s in her eyes, her shoulders, her jaw.
It was fucked, her looking at my sketchbook.
But it was nothing this bad.
Her fingers curl into the paper. “I stopped thinking about him for a while. Last year. When it all started. But then when I started feeling better, it was worse. Harder to get him out of my head. Then when I changed things last month… All of a sudden, I think about sex all the time. It’s not always with him. Sometimes it’s Kit Harrington or Chris Evans or some faceless guy. But a lot of times it’s Brendon.” Her cheeks flush.
“I think about you too.”
“All the time?”
“Every fucking night.”
Her teeth sink into her lip. Her attention goes back to the paper. Her voice gets stronger as she reads. “He’s thinking about me too. He wants me too. I don’t know what to do. I can’t act on it. He and Emma are the two most important people in my life. I can’t risk that. And it’s not like we have the potential for a future. If he knew the truth… He doesn’t want to be with someone like me. He doesn’t want to be with someone complicated.”
“Kay—”
Her stare cuts me off.
She knows what I’m asking.
What the hell does she mean I don’t want to be with someone like her?
She’s sweet. Smart. Tenacious. Funny. Beautiful.
A little uptight, yeah, but that only makes me want to undo her.
“I want to tell you. I do.” She plays with the wrapper of her chocolate bar. “But I’m afraid you’ll leave.”
“I won’t.”
“I know this ends in something complicated. With Em finding out. Or you realizing you’d rather be with someone your own age.” She traces the edge of her square until her finger is streaked with melting chocolate.
I want to tell her it doesn’t, but I can’t promise that. I can’t promise anything. I want Kay. Forever. But she’s got a big, bright future ahead of her. And I’m not letting anything hold her back. Even me.
Especially me.
“I’d rather have a taste than nothing.” She offers me half the square.
I take it.
She places the chocolate on her tongue. Chews. Swallows. “Serva me, servabo te. It means save me and I’ll save you.”
Fuck, that is a romantic notion.
But what the hell does Kaylee need saving from?
Chapter Thirty-One
Kaylee
The words are clawing at my throat.
At my fingers.
I pace around my room. It’s been hours since we got back from the beach. And he hasn’t said another word about the journal entry I read him.
We went right back to teasing about music.
To talking about the concert.
About how desperate he’s going to make me.
But this has been on the tip of my tongue all night.
I finish my last bit of Latin homework and put my textbook away. There. The night is mine.
Officially.
And he’s… he’s somewhere. With Dean, I think. One of the guys. Or several of them.
I grab my journal. Pick up my pen. Let all the thoughts spill from my fingers.
Brendon, I should tell you this. No, I want to. I want it off my chest.
It’s just I don’t want you to leave.
That’s why I haven’t told anyone. Because it’s better swallowing it deep than losing another person I love.